Possibly Obvious Thing Discovered: Writing the second half of a novel is much harder than writing the first

Yes, we have discovered a seemingly obvious thing.  And you already know what it is, because you just read the title of this post.

But still, some details.

With the second half of a novel, you’ve got a much difficult task.  You don’t just have to write half a novel, you have to write a half of a novel that matches another half of a novel!  And I’m not just thinking the plot has to fit together, the second half resolving the problems posed in the first.  You have to make sure characters stay consistent (or believably change).  You have to keep certain themes or “refrains” (gimmicks) going on throughout the story.

Finally (and this maybe is the toughest part) you have to deal with the expectations that come with having already written half of a novel!  If you’re writing the first half, you’ve got nothing to lose.  You can write whatever you want—if it sucks it sucks.  But if you write a bad second half of a novel, you . . . have wasted that first half of a novel (!)—one that you’ve already spent so much time and energy and “emotional capital” (i.e. focus and openness and empathy) into producing.  You raise your hopes with the first half—‘Wow, look, I wrote half of it . . . I’m doing great, all I have to do is finish it . . .’  And then the pressure is on for the second half.

–or at least, so it seems with us.

Still, our young adult novel is coming along.  It’s not done, but we are (as the above passage implies) definitely working on the second half.

 

 

Hundreds of Blank Checks on Street after Hurricane: An Act-of-Kindness Dilemma

Once upon a time, Dorian was walking the streets after a hurricane.  Blank checks were scattered about, among other debris.

Dorian thought, ‘I will rescue these checks, and mail them to their owners.’  That way, he figured, no scoundrel could misuse them.

And Dorian picked up those blank checks, and continued walking.  But—as Dorian continued walking, he saw (what else?) but more, and more blank checks.

He was walking on a street littered with blank checks. There were too many to pick up and re-mail.  ‘Probably, these checks are some kind of trash.  Out-of-date checks.  Checks that were in the garbage, and so more easily blown about during a hurricane.’

And so he threw away the blank checks he picked up.

Did he make an ‘I can’t help all the poor people, so I won’t help any of the poor people’ type of mistake?  Should he have simply kept the checks he picked up, mailed them to their owners, and counted it as an act of kindness?

We let the reader decide.

Challenge accepted by Eric and Melissa: Jumping out of a moving vehicle

Inspired by the challenges on the You Do! tab of this very site, Eric and Melissa decided to accept the challenge learn how to jump out of a moving vehicle.  And they decided to learn by doing.  What follows is a brief account (written by them in the the third person) of their exploits:

When Melissa and Eric perused the outstanding list of challenges that amanda and Dorian set forth for the difficult things fanabaloo, both members of the aforementioned dynamic duo peered longingly at the task voted most likely to result in spinal injury; jump out of a moving vehicle.

Being New Yorkers and thus lacking in the sort of frolicking grounds that would make for suitable gratification, we waited patiently until a road trip found us warmly embraced by the verdant golf courses of northeast Ohio.

It was here (see below) that we attempted the death-defying feat captured here by high-resolution camera phone technology.

Our lovely dad assistant slammed his foot towards full speed as we clutched to the back of the hellfire cart. Like heartthrob teens in pursuit of leather jacket glory, we leapt recklessly to the side managing, somehow, to avoid any serious injury or grass stains.

It's blurry because of its mind-blowing speed

An “Australian-style,” Burly, Slightly Aggressive Brand of Warmth

Borderline Baltimore, borderline rural Maryland—next to a pizza place advertising crab pizza, is located a groupon-issuing Indian restaurant.  We went, along with our friend Mamta, to this very Indian restaurant.  And yet, before the food was served, Dorian went back to the gravel-y parking lot, to get some Lactaid pills from the car.

And that’s when the act of kindness opportunity happened.  A man wearing a beaten-up cap and a sleeveless t shirt sidled (yes, sidled) up to Dorian, and said, with a relief, “Whew, maybe you can help me.”

He preceded to try tell Dorian a long story involving highways with numbers.  Dorian said, “I don’t know any of the roads around here.”

And so the man said, “That’s alright, I’m not lost.”  What he needed, or said he needed, was a few dollars for a little gas, because his credit card was maxed out.

Dorian didn’t listen to the particulars of the story too carefully.  He was just trying to, in a general way, determine if the man was trustworthy, both by listening to his words, but also by observing his mannerisms, tone of voice, etc.

The outcome of the observation was that the man seemed to have an “Australian-style” burly, slightly aggressive brand of warmth—one that seemed to not include deception, or not too much of it.

And because of the t shirt and the hat, and the “truck”, and the gravely parking lot (all part of an atmosphere of trust in rural Maryland . . . ) Dorian gave him four dollars.

That, and he and Amanda were trying to complete 20 acts of kindness, more or less ASAP.

Reflections On The Walk

(for our post on the walk itself, see here)

We walked from D.C. to Baltimore in a certain way—pulling a roller luggage, walking on sidewalks and on highway shoulders, bringing a small supply of sunscreen and origami paper (for breaks) but forgetting a flashlight . . .

Which means, we did NOT walk from DC to Baltimore in either of the following ways:

1. The Competent Backpacker Way: We didn’t rent backpacks from REI, pack everything we needed to pack (including a flashlight), plot out our course perfectly, do months of research, have the perfect shoes, etc, etc., etc.  To risk an absurd understatement: our planning and equipment were decidedly imperfect in many respects.
2. The Super-Hardcore Way: We didn’t do the whole walk in one day.  I think we could have.  We had walked about 30 miles when we stopped for the night, at 9:00 PM.  We could have had a cup of coffee, taken some Aleve, whipped out our flashlight, and gone the distance . . . still (to risk another understatement) our two-day approach was just a liiiiittle easier than doing it in the most hard-core way it could be done.

So, the question is: Why did we do it our way, and not either of the above two ways?

The answer is uncertain—and I think that neither of us could have articulated why we were doing it the way were doing it as we were doing it.  And the truth is, we both felt very drawn to both the Competent Backpacker Way, and to the Super-Hardcore Way.

What I think our choice reveals is the importance of two things, in a challenge/endeavor/journey like this: newness, and randomness or chance.

We didn’t want to just do a normal backpacking trip, albeit a little more of an urban one.  And we didn’t want to be just so hardcore about it that we were just definitely going to do it, no matter what the cost.  We wanted many things to be undetermined, open, and—potentially—new. 

An example of this: As we were walking, we found a fortune cookie factory along the road.  It was inside a small compound, but the gate was open.  And so we stopped, and went inside. 

When we got there, we saw two people cleaning the factory floor (it was a Saturday).  And so we (very politely) asked if we could have a fortune cookie.  One of the two men smiled and said yes, and then went away and came back with a bag of (I presume) FRESH fortune cookies.

We gave these two people our cards (something we give to anybody who helps us or is involved in a challenge), said thank you, and were on our way.  It was just a little bit of newness and randomness, and it seemed like exactly the type of thing that we were looking for—in that way that seems a little strange, when you think about the other ways a thing like this could be done.